


The Séance

by vonhosselfratt



Category: Will & Grace
Genre: Gen, very silly, very spooky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2019-12-25 19:52:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18268253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vonhosselfratt/pseuds/vonhosselfratt
Summary: It's an (alleged) party at Karen's penthouse. What could go wrong?





	1. Chapter 1

“O- _kay_ , party at the manse,” Grace says, straightening out her chiffon dress and fixing her hair as they exit the elevator.  “I wonder how many celebrities are gonna be here tonight.”

Will side-eyes her as they walk together, clutching his Tupperware to his chest. “Yeah, you _are_ going to refrain from playing “ass-tag” this time?” he chides. “I mean, you might have thought it was cute before, but we’re living in the thick of the MeToo movement…”

“Oh, shut up, Will. I think I can objectify a few Republican politicians without losing any sleep. God knows you’ve done it.” Her eyes drop warily to his Tupperware container “Did you really have to bring your weird pickled shrimp again? Karen specifically said it wasn’t a potluck.”

“ _Trust_ me, as soon as Ang Lee gets a taste of one of these, he’ll be clamouring for the recipe.”

“Oh, so you can sidle up to him and shove your screenplay in his face? Subtle segue.”

“I’ll have you know that I’ve reworked Bye-Bisexual a dozen times. Chad’s now a highly trained yet vulnerable secret agent with a complicated relationship with his father and a soft spot for sympathetic villains.”

“Oh, I’m sure Bradley Cooper is just _dying_ to get in on that,” Grace mocks. “Wait. I wonder if he’ll be here.”

As they reach the main entrance of the manse, she turns to her friend suddenly. “Wait. Breath check.” She leans to obnoxiously exhale in his face. Will examines her attentively.

“You’re good. But, uh…” He reaches across and with a sharp notion, plucks a single hair from her chin.

“Ow! Oh, thank god,” she winces.

Before Will can lift his hand to press the buzzer, the sound of numerous locks unbolting sound out. The door opens, and Karen appears, looking uncharacteristically smaller and...well, not unkempt, but also not made-up - hair more flowing, with less product, complete with a flowing nightdress with the kind of ruffles she would’ve lambasted Grace for wearing in the ‘90s.

The two stare blankly at the socialite’s attire.

“Uh, Karen?” Grace says finally. “Did we not get the memo on the dress code for this party? ‘Cause when we got the invite, you told me to dress up. And by invite, I mean when you showed up yesterday for exactly eight seconds and said, “Big A-List party. Manse. Seven pm. Wear something sheer,’ before walking out again.”

“Yeah, is this a costume party?” Will says, hands on hips indignantly. “Cause I could’ve thrown together an impeccable Inspector Clouseau…”

“No, you can’t, sweetie.”

Karen rolls her eyes and yanks the door fully open. “Just get in here. And Will, throw that abomination in the furnace where it belongs.”

“The shrimp or the screenplay?” Grace jokes.

Will clutches his Tupperware protectively as they step inside. “It’s my special tapas,” he says petulantly. “And I’m saving some for the celebrities.”

As they note their surroundings, they realize it’s dark, cold, and eerily silent.

“There _are_ celebrities, aren’t there?” Grace says, shivering. “‘Cause I taped my boobs together for this.”

“This isn’t your _typical_ party,” Karen says cryptically as she leads them through the hallway. Confused, the two follow her, and Will whistles a little to lighten the mood. “Well, your parties never are typical. At your last one I met Alan Cumming at the urinal and we sang eight drunken bars of Rose’s Turn together for reasons I can’t remember.”

“Turn off your phones,” Karen cuts in harshly, as they reach the entrance to the dining hall. Will and Grace reluctantly take their smartphones and press the power buttons. “Now hand ‘em over,” Karen says, holding up a ziplock bag. “Just your phones, not your keys. Jack seemed to think this was some _other_ kind of party.”

“Hand over our phones?” Grace says sulkily. “But I wanted pictures with Bradley Cooper.”

“Read the room, Grace,” Will snaps. “Unless Bradley Cooper is tied and gagged somewhere in Karen’s sensory deprivation chamber, I think we’ve been duped.”

“...This isn’t an A-List party?” Grace mutters angrily.

Karen shrugs. “Any party I’m at is an A-List party. But yeah, Wilma’s right. No technology allowed. It’ll cloud the atmosphere I’m trying to create.” She holds up the bag expectantly.

Sighing, Will relents, handing over his phone. Grace follows suit, grumbling to herself.

“So what it this? Judging by the bone-chilling atmosphere, I’m guessing it’s some kind of murder mystery party and you’re...already dead?” Will says, looking Karen up and down judgmentally.

Karen narrows her eyes. “Fine. I’ll let you have that. I _know_ I don’t look my best. I figured I might make the spirits jealous and malevolent if I looked like I have money, or product, or access to basic hygiene.”

“Woah, woah, woah.” Will stops her, hands braced dramatically. “ _Spirits_?”

Karen pushes the door to the dining room open, revealing a long, dark antique table surrounded by chairs; three empty, one occupied by a bored-looking Jack. In the center of the table is what looks to be a Ouija board. Will and Grace stare at it, transfixed.

“Hey, guys,” Jack says, tapping the table restlessly. “So, is the party getting started? When do I get to hook up with Tyler Posey?”

Will shakes his head, dumbfounded.

“This isn’t a sex party, Jack,” Grace corrects. “We’ve been tricked. To think I shaved my legs for this.”

“It was so easy to lure you here,” Karen says, smiling. “You two are the biggest boobs in this room, and that’s saying something.”

Will folds his arms. “Well, now that I know I’m not getting the party I was promised - or a GLAAD nomination - I’ll be leaving.”

He turns to head for the door.

“Bup-bup-bup! You’re not going anywhere, mister,” Karen snaps. “I’ve done my research and need at least four people for this séance to work! One to communicate, one to keep inventory, one to get possessed, and one to dismiss the whole thing as a pseudoscience and get mysteriously murdered before the end of the movie!” She stamps her foot.

Grace softens a little, reaching to take her hand. “Karen? Is this...about Rosario? Do you want to contact her?”

Karen smiles softly.. “I already did contact her. Well, she contacted me. At the office. Through Jack.”

Jack nods affirmatively. “It’s true. She possessed me and I was continuously crapping my pants all the way through it. Felt good. Cleansing.”

Will and Grace blink in unison.

“I _just_ wanna talk to her again. One last time,” Karen pouts.

Seeing Karen glassy-eyed and vulnerable has always gotten to Will - perhaps the only time he’s not convinced she’s a product of the netherworld herself - and he sighs.

“Fine. I’ll stay. It seems like you need a friend tonight. But I’m not doing this séance thing. How about we turn on some lights, put away the spirit board, and get out a Scrabble board instead, huh? I’ll even let you use the word ‘spramp’.” He smiles at her in an attempt to be appeasing.

Karen hisses. “No, you _carpooch!_ It has to be tonight! Tonight’s the anniversary of when Rosie and I first met. We used to celebrate it by getting baked in the tub together and giving each other a salt scrub.”

“I’d do that with you, Kar,” Jack says sincerely.

“I know, Poodle, but it’s just not the same. I need to be with her tonight, and this Hasbro parlor game I got for six ninety-nine at the toy store is the only way I know how.”

Will looks at Grace, then Jack, who both seem to be wavering. “You know, I’m sure Rosario’s ghost is probably busy,” he tries. “What with all the posthumous tasks you gave her. It’s not like Marlo Thomas is gonna haunt _herself_.”

“Actually, as of this year, Rosario Yolanda Salazar is…” Karen voice stiffens. “No longer in my employ. Her contract expired. She doesn’t even have to visit me. That’s why I have to contact her, to know that she still cares, even if I'm not her boss anymore.”

There’s always a semblance of both ridiculousness and genuine sentiment in the things Karen cares about, and as the three exchange looks, there's a silent, mutual acknowledgement that they have to do this for her.

“Of course she cares. She _loved_ you,” Grace says. “You two had this, amazing, bizarre, dysfunctional, soulmate/friendship/mother-daughter, borderline sexual, romantic bond that...in hindsight, was pretty screwed up…”

“Look who’s talkin’” Jack says under his breath.

“...but if you really need this, Karen? Fine. I’m in.” Grace says, taking a seat at the table. “Will?”

“Sure,” Will says, grimacing and sitting down next to her. “I guess I’ll be taking on the role as ‘skeptic with the untimely death.’”

“Attagirl,” Karen smiles, sitting next to Jack and bouncing a little excitedly. “Alright, hands in, everyone”

The gang reach out and lay their fingers on the planchette in unison.

“I’m assuming you have done some research on this kind of thing? You know, outside of critically panned horror movies?” Will says.

Karen ignores him, taking a deep breath. “Spirit world, I grant you access to our circle,” she says coolly. “How many spirits are with us today?”

They watch intently. It doesn’t take long before the planchette slowly begins to shift, sliding with a haunting scrape to the number 3.

Grace’s eyes widen, and she glances across at Will who looks equally pallid.

“Well, back off. We only need one,” Karen barks. “Rosario, are you with us?” she adds, her voice softer.

Again, the planchette moves slickly. Grace feels like she’s going to throw up as it moves towards her, finally landing on the ‘NO’.

“Okay, time out. Seriously, who keeps moving it?” she says, looking around the table suspiciously. “You’re freakin’ me out.”

“The _spirit_ is moving it,” Karen says mockingly. “Good lord, I didn’t think I was going to have to explain _all_ the rules to you.”

“Well, it’s....not Rosario,” Will says slowly, feeling his pulse quicken. He shares a panicked glance with Grace. “We could try asking their name?”

“Or if he’s cute,” Jack purred.

Everyone turns to stare at Jack.

“What? I was promised a sex party. Still shifting gears here.”

“...Fine,” Karen huffs. “What’s your name? One at a time, and for the love of god, no creepy Victorian children.”

With bated breath, the gang watch intently as the wooden chip moves again, first to the C, then the A, then the T and…

Karen feels her teeth slowly gritting as the words finally forms: Cathy.

“Kathy? _Kathy Griffin’s_ here?” Jack says. “Oh, my god, I love her.”

“No, idiot, it’s my ex-husband’s ex-bitch, Cathy Walker. What are _you_ doing here?” Karen spits. “Shouldn’t you be up in Scarsdale terrorizing your foot doctor for giving you that botched rhinoplasty?”

The planchette moves again, more angrily and jagged this time, shifting sharply to spell out _V-E-N-G-E-A-..._

“Vengaboys?”

“Jack, quit guessing!”

_N-C-_

“Good lord,” Will whispers, feeling sweat forming on his brow despite the cool air.

The planchette finishes sharply on the ‘E’ and comes to a dead halt, leaving the four shocked, eyed fixed to the Ouija board as they begin to gauge what they'd just witnessed.

“...Okay, am I the only one who didn’t get that?” Jack says. “Also, I have an itchy nose, would Cathy mind if I just…”

“She wants revenge,” Will translates, his voice going up an octave.

“Revenge for _what_?” Karen indignantly. “How about a little gratitude, huh? I raised your children! Loved them like they were my own! Not to mention-”

Before she can finish, the planchette is off again, ricocheting from the M to the U and then the R to the D...

“ _Nonononono_ ,” Grace whispers to herself, as the dreaded letters finish with _E-R._

A shriek exits both Will and Grace in unison. The redhead clamps a hand over her mouth, whimpering in fear.

"No, seriously. Is it too late to switch to Scrabble?" Will pleads.

“Okay, okay, this just got way too real for me,” Grace cries. “She just threatened to _kill_ us!”

“Oh, relax, she’s not going to _kill_ us.” Karen drawls. “She has no body. She’s just an _energy_. Her aura is about as threatening as a YouTube comments section.”

“Unless…” Jack says. “You know, she possesses one of us.”

Grace shrieks again. “Oh my god! I didn’t think of that.”

Karen scoffs. “Don’t flatter yourself, Grace. She’s had like a dozen boob jobs and fifteen butt lifts. She’s not gonna go for the flattest one at the table.”

“Yeah. If anything, Will’s the one in danger,” Jack says, before wincing in pain. “Ow! Cathy just kicked me!”

“No, that was me,” Will says.

“You know what, guys, I think we should just slide this into the ‘goodbye’ and call it a night,” Grace starts, “‘Cause I’m starting to get-”

Before she can finish, the planchette stirs and starts to move of its own accord, eliciting gasps from around the table.

 

S

 

T

 

They watch attentively.

 

A

 

Will feels his mouth go dry.

 

N

 

Grace gulps.

 

L

 

Karen sighs. “Okay, okay, we get it, it’s Stanley Walker, you want to kill Stanley Walker. You don’t have to coddle us, we can take a hint.”

“Can you not snap at the vengeful spirit, please?” Will pleads. “It’s making me nervous.”

“Wait, guys,” Grace suddenly says. “I don’t think she’s saying that she wants to kill Stan. I think she’s saying that…okay, this is a little nuts.” She lowers her gaze back to the table awkwardly, unaware of where to address her question. “Cathy, are you trying to say that Stan killed _you_?”

Before Grace can even process the weight of the question she’d just asked, the planchette has already shot up firmly, unmistakably to ‘YES’.

Chairs scrape as the gang pull back, shocked at the turn of events.

“Wha-no. No! You’re lying!” Karen says, standing up angrily. “Stan is a lot of things - a liar, a cheater, a sub-par oboe player - but he is _not_ a killer!”

“I don’t know, Kar,” Jack shrugs, “Cathy makes a compelling argument.”

“Compelling _how_? All she’s said is _Stan, Murder, and Vengeance_ ,” Will says. “I mean, it’s not gonna hold up in court.”

The planchette moves towards Will in a sharp, threatening manner and he yells, plummeting backwards in his chair.

“On seconds thoughts, that is a compelling argument. Please don’t hurt me,” he begs.

Grace lifts her gaze to meet Karen’s, who seems, despite her defiance, deeply troubled.

“Karen, how _did_ Cathy die?” she asks.

Karen purses her lips, slowly sinking back down to her seat. “Well, it was a long time ago,” she explains “She and Stan were in the middle of a divorce, and it was getting a little messy. She went up to their New England lake house one weekend because she needed time away from the kids, and when she didn’t come back a few days later, Stan filed a missing person’s report.” she shrugs. “A week later, they found her drowned body in the lake, opioids her stomach and an abandoned fishing boat upside-down in the water. That’s _it_.”

“What do you mean ‘that’s it’? Doesn’t that sound even remotely suspicious to you?” Grace contests.

“Nope,” Karen says immediately. “Gal went fishing, got high, went to take a leak and never made her way up. It can happen.”

Jack hums doubtfully. “Karen, I know I’ve only just met this woman, but from what I’ve heard, she doesn’t _seem_ like the fishing type.”

“Especially when she’s embroiled in divorce that could set Stan back millions,” Will adds. “You gotta admit, this is fishy.”

“Really, Will? _Puns_?”

“Unintentional, I swear!” Will defends.

“Look. Stan was with me all night. He was nowhere near that lake house. Are you seriously taking a ghost’s side over mine?” Karen snarls.

“Hey, I’m taking the side of...whoever agrees not to kill me,” Will says nervously. “Which...as it stands, could go either way.”

"You're _my_ attorney. If you'd rather represent a rotting pile of silicon at the bottom of a polluted lake in Vermont, please, let it be known." Karen's accusatory stare bores into him.

"I...uh...take the fifth," Will says, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

" _Mayhaps_ we should say goodbye to Cathy," Jack suggests, pulling his chair back in and placing his fingers demonstratively on the planchette. The others hurriedly follow suit. 

"Best idea I've heard all evening," Will shivers.

"Remember," Karen says, looking pointedly at each of her friends, "this never happened."

Together, they slide the chip to "Goodbye".

* * *

 "That was crazy at Karen's last night, right?" Will shouts to Grace from the bathroom as he washes his face. "Can you imagine? Stan, a killer?"

Grace hums. "You did seemed pretty convinced for a second, there," she teases as she sips her coffee. Will indignantly goes to join her in the living area.

"I mean, she was an  _angry spirit_ , Grace. She could've gotten me to strip down and do the Macarena on the table if she wanted. You don't mess with ghosts." He shrugs as he pours his cereal.

"So...not a victim. Just a bitter divorcée looking for her lasts shreds of attention where she can get it?"

"I'm Stan's attorney, so if anyone asks, that's my answer." He takes a nonchalant sip of coffee.

"Whatever did happen to that soul of yours?"

"Lost it somewhere in law school."

Grace laughs. "I'm just glad we made it out alive," she says and goes to give him a peck on the cheek. "I'm off to work." 

Grace would later note that Will had felt particular warm to the touch that morning, and had sounded different, though not discernibly so. Now, she's none the wiser as he waves her off and she heads to work.

As his roommate leaves, Will goes to check his hair in the reflection of his phone camera, innocently humming to himself. If he had looked a little closer, he might have noticed a gleam in his eye; a certain glower that belied something deeper, something was beginning to take hold of him, albeit slowly.

Also none the wiser, he finishes his coffee and begins to clear Grace's breakfast away.

 _It's just a pseudoscience,_ he tells himself. _Nothing to worry about._


	2. Chapter 2

“Honey, isn’t it a little early in the morning to be wearing a _houndstooth pantsuit?_ ” Karen complains from her desk, shielding her eyes and wincing at the sight of her boss, who bares a sardonic full-teeth smile in response. “Warn a gal before you break out the tessellation patterns. I don’t need to take a trip every time I look at you, I’ve got pills for that.”

“Okay, first of all, it’s three in the afternoon,” Grace says. “And second, are you sure you’re okay? I know you like to deflect from talking about things, but I know how much you really wanted to hear from Rosario last night.” Grace pauses, trying to think of something comforting to say. “...You know, I’m sure she was just busy. In the Land of the Dead. Strumming her guitar. Or whatever.”

Karen narrows her eyes. “ _Coco_ , Grace, seriously? How dare you reduce Rosario to a cultural stereotype?”

Grace blinks. “I mean...you do it all the time.”

“Also, she’s _El Salvadoran_ , not Mexican,” Karen goes on. “Lord, Grace, I ought to report you to HR for creating a hostile work environment.”

“ _I’m_ HR and you once thought Rosario was black.” Grace says quizzically.

The phone rings, and Grace inwardly sighs with relief that her attempted therapy session was cut short. She goes to head over to her desk as Karen begrudgingly picks up the phone.

“Grace Adler Designs,” she says, in her usual disinterested manner. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Yup. Gotcha.” She holds the phone away slightly. “Grace, Will’s on the line. He’s calling from a holding cell in the 24th precinct and he needs you to bail him out of jail.”

Grace snorts. “Really? He told you that?”

“Nope, but I’ve done enough shady transactions before to know when someone’s calling from the slammer. Also, he sounds like he’s just wet himself. This sounds like a ‘you’ problem, honey.” She holds out the phone.

Bemused, Grace runs to snatch the receiver from Karen and holds it to her ear. “Will? What’s going on?”

“Grace, don’t freak out,” comes Will’s panicked voice, “but I’m in jail and I need you to bail me out.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Grace says, pinching the bridge of her nose. “What the hell happened? You got arrested? At three in the afternoon?” She locks eyes with Karen and throws her a perplexed look.

“ _I don’t know_ what happened, Grace,” Will cries. “It was a normal day. I went to work, I taught my class, we broke for lunch, and then next thing I know I’m face-down on the freeway getting arrested for theft and vandalism.”

“Woah, woah, woah, slow down. Theft of _what_? Vandalism of _what_?”

“They won’t tell me!” Will cries. “I don’t remember anything because I lost like, a whole ninety minutes. I feel like this is some huge prank, but no, it’s real. And it’s going on my record!”

“Okay, calm down,” Grace says, though her mind is racing. “What’s the bail?”

“I need three hundred dollars,” Will says. “And can you hurry? Because there’s this other guy in my cell who looks like he commits crimes while _actually_ awake.”

“I’ll be right down,” Grace says, and hangs up, turning to Karen. “Okay, Karen, I’m gonna need you to get out your check-book.”

Karen gasps, offended. “Why do _I_ have to bail him out?”

“As my assistant, consider it to be your one task for today,” Grace replies, grabbing her coat.

 

* * *

 

Will can’t recall the last time he’d been so petrified in his life. He closes his eyes, clutching at the bars in attempt to steady himself, and tries once again to let the cogs turn in his mind. But despite his agonizing attempts to replay that morning's events, there’s nothing but empty static in his memory. Frustrated, he grits his teeth together and sighs.

“You’re gonna be here a while,” comes the aloof voice of an officer nearby. “You might wanna take a seat.”

“Oh, really, and then what? Start playing the harmonica? Put tally marks on the wall?  Pull out my shoelaces?” Will bites sarcastically. “I’m not a criminal. I’m not going to act like one.”

The cop stops to stare at Will with a musing expression. “Hey, you look familiar. Have we met before?” he says.

Will furrows his brow, lifting his gaze to look at the other man. “Were you the guy who arrested me? Sorry, memory’s still a little fuzzy.”

“Nah, from something else,” the cop says. He clicks his fingers. “Wait, I got it. You did a gay sensitivity seminar for us at the station way back in the day. It was great. I really got a lot out of it. It’s Bob, by the way.”

“Oh,” Will says, softening a little. “Thank you, Officer...Bob. Hey, you know what would be another great way to strengthen that pillar of camaraderie between the police department and the gay community? If you could let me give you just one urine sample so you can run tests and _prove_ I was given mind-altering sedative drugs and that I’m not responsible for anything that happened here today? That would be great.”

Officer Bob hums doubtfully. “Eh, that’s kind of a stretch. I can get you a sparkling water, though.”

“Okay,” Will sighs, defeated, and as the cop leaves, he resumes his theorizing.

Clearly, he’d ingested _something_ recently to make him behave so strangely. He remembers going to work, finishing his morning class at 11:30, and … wait, _Jillian_ . Jillian had been handing out her homemade oatmeal cookies that morning. Will had eaten one before going on his break - _damn_ his cheat days - and it was entirely possible that there was something sinister laced within that buttery, crispy, goodness. After all, he’d nearly gotten engaged to Jack over a few swigs of her hallucinogenic " _chocolate milk"._ He knows he’s been pushing his students a little hard lately, but drugging a teacher?

“Jillian, if I get out of here, you are so going on whiteboard duty,” he hisses to himself.

 

* * *

 

“Alright, there’s your bail. Now let Wilma out of his cage,” Karen says as she slips over the check.

The cop, Officer Cox, picks up the check and blinks at it, humming. “Huh. I’m surprised that you’re the one to bail him out Ms Walker,” he replies. “It was _your_ billboard that got vandalized.”

Karen scoffs. “What billboard? I don’t have a billboard.” She pauses, then giggles. “Okay, a few. In Japan.” She makes a hush motion with her finger.

Grace blinks. “Wait. What exactly did Will vandalize?”

“When we apprehended him, he’d climbed up a fifty-foot billboard and spray painted the letters “M-U-R-D-E” on an ad for Walker Property Management,” explains Officer Cox. “My guess is that he was going for “MURDER” but he ran out of time. His mistake was wasting his time on calligraphy instead of just getting the point across. Also doing it in broad daylight where everyone could see him. Either way, your friend is a very incompetent criminal,” Officer Cox shrugs. “Not the kind of behavior you’d expect from someone who put on such a moving sensitivity seminar, I’ll tell you that.”

Grace can only stare in response, in a state of utter shock.

“Also, we’re dropping the theft charges, since it turns out the car he used was rented. But there’s still the possible DUI. Plus, the ‘MURDER’ thing? We might need to hold him in for questioning. It’s just kind of a dubious word, you know?”

Grace stammers, trying to find her words. “Officer, please, my friend clearly got inebriated from _something_ , but it’s not his fault! He’s a respectable law professor, and, really, how much damage could he possibly have done? It was just ninety minutes!”

“So was Pearl Harbor. You want me to let that one slide, too?”

Before Grace can even gauge a possible way to reply, Karen pulls on her sleeve, tugging her away from the cop.

“Grace, I think I know what’s happened here,” she whispers. “This has Cathy Walker written all over it.”

“What? No. This is serious, Karen,” Grace snaps, pulling her arm away. “Let’s just leave last night’s _eccentricities_ in the past where they belong.”

Karen folds her arms. “Am I the only one in this room with a brain cell? Think about it. “Murder?” A Walker Inc. billboard? That bitch possessed him last night and now she’s using him to besmirch the name of Stanley Walker!”

Grace hates that there’s even crumb of reasoning to what Karen’s saying. But spirits and murder aside, all she cares about in this moment is Will’s safety. He could have been seriously hurt that morning.

Oh god, she realizes. That could have been _her_.

“Karen, can we just focus on getting Will out of jail? We can exorcise him later,” is the only calm and collected response she can muster.

Karen nods, and walks back up to the cop.

“Alright, listen up, officer. As Stan’s ex-wife, I own _half_ of Walker Inc. Ergo, I own _half_ of that billboard. And since my friend only vandalized _half_ of the billboard, I’m choosing not to press charges against him. Are we clear?”

Officer Cox is visibly perplexed. “Um. I don’t _think_ that’s how it works…”

“Oh, fine,” Karen sighs, reaching into her purse and throwing a stack of fifty-dollar bills at the cop. “Happy?”

 

* * *

 

When Will gets home, his first instinct is to take a shower - a day of being a hardened criminal leaves him feeling gross, like he’s tarnished a lifelong good reputation - but even then, the aftershock of being in a state of dissociation leaves him feeling numb. He would _never_ do something so reckless as to climb a fifty-foot billboard ladder - he could barely stomach watching the ski-lift scene in _Cinerama Holiday,_ for crying out loud - but the speed cameras have him on video doing just that. Just as incriminating were the receipts in the passenger seat in the car he’d apparently rented. Receipts from the convenience store for two cans of red spray paint, timestamped 11:55am. It makes him sick to his stomach, the idea that he’d been so out of it he’d been able to comfortably litter in someone else’s car.

His second instinct after showering is to call the department head of the university to make sure he still has his job. He does, and is relieved at the sound of confusion in the other man’s voice. At least his students hadn’t witnessed him high out of his mind. That, _plus_ the ukulele mishap? Could not be lived down.

He was all set for a night of Netflix, blankets and self-care when Grace sheepishly sidles up next to him.

“Are you doing okay?” she says softly. “You must be pretty freaked out, after what happened to you.”

“I’ll be okay,” Will says. “I already know who’s responsible. This girl in my class - Jillian - fed me this drug-laced cookie that may have been revenge for a C I gave her on an assignment. That’s my working theory, anyway.” 

“...Okay,” Grace says. “And I’m not disputing that theory. But uh, just a heads up. Karen’s on her way over, and she has another theory that-”

Before she can finish her sentence, the door bursts open and Karen charges in, armed with a ring of rope looped around her shoulder. She points an accusatory finger in Will’s direction. “Grab her!” she yells, and Jack runs in after her clumsily.

“What the hell-” Will starts, standing up from his nook. The two charge at him and seize him, dragging him over to the dining chair. He struggles, yelling, _“Grace, what the hell’s going on?!”_

“Don’t be mad at me,” Grace cries, standing helplessly as Karen and Jack wrestle Will into the chair, grappling at his flailing limbs in attempt to tie him up. “I just want to disprove Karen’s theory!”

Jack manages to force Will’s hands behind his back, and begins to bind his wrists together tightly.

“Okay, Will, while we’ve got you here, be honest: how does it feel to have a woman inside of you?” he asks inquisitively. 

Will turns to stare at Jack, aghast. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, Rosario was inside of _me_ , but it was more of a one-and-done situation,” Jack goes on as he continues to tie up Will. “This demon’s been in you for like, 24 hours. She fell asleep inside of you like a selfish lover.”

Karen uses Will’s dumbfounded demeanor as an opportunity to tie his ankles to the legs of the chair while Grace rushes to explain.

“Karen thinks that Cathy may have possessed you last night,” she says hurriedly. “You know, during the séance?”

“I _did_ say he was the one most in danger,” Jack cuts in.

“That’s ridiculous,” Will yells, resuming his struggling. “That was just some dumb parlor game from a toy store!”

“I know, but-”

“Please tell me you’re not actually buying this!”

“You have to admit, in a strange, twisted way, it makes sense!” Grace cries. “This morning, you nearly accused Stanley Walker of murder! On a fifty-foot billboard! For millions of people to see! You really think that some pot brownie could do that?”

“It was a _cookie_ , and it was definitely not marijuana!” Will contests angrily. “Guys, seriously, let me go!”

Karen grabs her purse and pulls out a flask. “Alright, Cathy. You want drowning? I’ll give you drowning!”

She unscrews the lid and, with the flick of her wrist, throws the liquid all over Will’s face.

“What the hell?” Will screams, shaking his head vigorously to get the water off.  “Karen, I swear to god if you don’t let me go-”

“Was that holy water?” Jack says.

“It should be,” Karen says, confused. “I blessed it.”

“Oh, so you’re a Roman Catholic priest now?” Grace says.

“Of course I am, honey. I got ordained on the internet just before I got here.”

“Alright. This is ridiculous, guys,” Grace says, grabbing the flask from Karen. “If Cathy’s truly inside Will, she’s not going to leave until she gets what she wants. And contrary to what we’ve seen today, Cathy’s not _actually_ a demon. She’s a human being. And what do human beings respond to?”

Karen and Jack think for a while.

“Money?” Karen says.

“Sex?” Jack tries.

Grace shakes her head. “Open and honest communication.” She turns to Will. “So, come on, Cathy. What’s is going to take to get you out of my friend and back into the netherworld where you belong?”

Will lets his head drop back wearily. “Oh, my god. For the _last_ time, I’m not poss-”

Before he can finish, he begins to shake vigorously, his eyes rolling back.

“Will?” Grace cries.

The shaking quickly escalates into full-blown convulsions and Grace screams, rushing to her friend.

“Should we call 911?” she yells as Will’s body continues to struggle erratically. “It looks like he’s having a seizure!”

“No, get back!” Jack warns, backing away. “This happened to me with Rosie. It’s Cathy. She’s hatching!”

Grace screams, diving for cover behind the couch, tightly clutching the flask of May-or-May-Not-Be-Holy-Water just in case.

They watch in fear as Will’s body slowly stops, becoming limp and slumping forward. Just as they think it’s over, a slow, drawn out cackle emanates from his throat, and he finally looks up, with a sharp gleam in his eyes that belied that Will was no longer present. 

“Long time, no see, Karen Walker,” Cathy says, grinning in a disconcerting manner at the socialite as the others look on in horror. “Or tell me, is it back to Delaney now? Or should I just cut to the chase and refer to you as the vamping whore who stole my husband?”

There's a stretch of silence, and Jack breaks it by laughing nervously.

“Uh, I know you’ve been dead for some time, Cathy, but that word’s considered disparaging now.” He nods. “Yeah. The preferred term is sex-worker? Karen’s the vamping _sex-worker_ who stole your husband.”

“No, whore is good,” Karen says airily, before shifting back to anger mode. “Well. That was some stunt you pulled today. Such a shame you didn’t get to finish your little mural on the freeway.”

“It took five cops, three tasers and a tranquilizer dart to bring me down. You underestimate my power.” Cathy smiles coolly, before effortlessly tearing herself from the bonds of her chair and rising to her feet. Grace backs away, still holding the flask that seemed less effective with each passing second.

“I’m not here to hurt you, Karen,” she goes on. “I know you and I have our differences, but we have one common enemy.”

“Patty Hearst?” Karen says, perplexed.

“ _Stanley Walker_ ,” she spits. “Think about it, Karen. He married both of us when we were young, naive. He left both of us. With nothing.”

“Uh, actually, _I_ got everything. You got a lungful of tadpoles ” Karen quips.

“You got _half_ of everything.” Cathy corrects, visibly agitated. “We were both wronged by this man. If we work together to take down Stanley Walker, we could take his fortune. _We_ could be stronger together, Karen.”

Karen’s taken aback by the offer. Grace and Jack can only watch, both terrified and fascinated by the exchange.

“...Of all the nerve,” she finally says, offended. “Are you hitting on me? In my _lawyer’s_ body?”

Cathy scoffs. “Why do you think I chose _this_ one?” she says, gesturing to Will's body. “Stan’s attorney is just what I need to cover this up. To brush this whole thing under the rug.”

"So you want to put Stan back in jail?" Karen asks. 

"That was the plan at first. But why stop there?" the ghost says coolly. "He deserves to rot for what he did to me. What he did to _us_."

“Huh. So there’s really a ghost and a murder plot going on in my living room right now,” Grace whispers under her breath. “This is a thing that is happening.”

“I’m going to do it. With _or_ without you, Karen,” Cathy says, stepping so that she’s just an inch from the shorter woman’s face. “But let it be known that it’s going to be much easier for you and your friends if you go along with it.”

Karen wavers a little, finally considering the woman’s words for the first time. Did she want revenge on Stan?

Perhaps, a little.

But murder?

Karen still felt for Stan, and always would, regardless of their history. Regardless of whatever happened with Cathy. He was a part of her, no matter how wronged she had been.

Standing her ground, Karen fixes her posture and glares up at the woman. "I’m sorry,” she says. “But I’m not joining your pathetic First Wives’ Club. You’re on your own.”

Grace and Jack watch intently, gauging Cathy’s reaction. It’s not a reassuring one - first a frown, then slowly, a smile.

“You think I’m on my own?” she laughs. “I have backup.”

“Oh, god, please don’t tell me there’s gonna be more ghosts in my living room,” Grace pleads.

“Not exactly. This person is from the mortal realm. And she stands to benefit very much from this arrangement.” Cathy grins. “So. Looks like I don’t need you after all, Karen Walker. Goodbye. I’ll remember this conversation.”

With that, Will’s body begins to shake again. This time, Grace and Jack rush to catch him as he faints into their arms, shivering and mumbling confusedly. Grace grabs a cushion from the couch and lays it under his head as he begins to collect himself from once again being possessed.

“Is she gone?” Will croaks, as he slowly comes to.

“I don’t know. She might be lying dormant in your body,” Grace says. “Or maybe she went somewhere else.”

“Okay, does anyone else _feel_ possessed?” Jack says. “I’ve been possessed before, so I know what it’s like. You feel a little lightheaded, kinda bloated. Also you can’t control your limbs.”

“...I think we’re all good,” Grace says, catching her breath. “Karen?”

Karen slowly sits on the couch, lost in her own reverie. “Do you think she meant what she said?” she says in a small voice. “About killing Stan?”

Grace and Jack share a worried glance, because the menacing energy that had filled the room thirty seconds earlier certainly hadn't felt contrived.

“She did sound kinda spooky,” Jack says. “Like she was from the 1800's or something.”

“Yeah, that was kinda pretentious. It’s like, she's from what, the 90’s?” Grace chimes in, in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Will sits up, affronted. “So you’re telling me I was Cathy just now? Like, Cathy was controlling my body?”

“A little slow on the uptake there, buddy,” Jack says, patting his shoulder condescendingly. “You didn’t miss much. Just, uh, a brief reunion. A murder plot. Something about someone from the mortal realm. I don’t know. I kinda stopped following there at the end.”

Will shudders, and struggles to his feet. “Okay, that’s it. I’m not having my body invaded again. I need some kind of protection from otherworldly spirits now or I swear I’m going to lose it.”

Grace goes to rub his arm comfortingly. “I think my Aunt Honey makes these charm bracelets from healing crystals?” she says. “They’re like twenty bucks apiece and apparently they help ward off bad spirits.”

“Get me one of those,” Will says, rubbing his temples.

“Really? You’re not going to try to debunk-”

“Grace, this _evil spirit_ was unleashed into the world through a _five-dollar hunk of wood from a toy store_. Nothing is beneath me at this point. Get on Etsy and _get me those crystals!”_

“On it.”


	3. Chapter 3

The gang sleep together that night; tangled up together, semi-spooning in Will’s bed with limbs splayed everywhere. It was an unspoken decision: clinging together in times of distress is as autonomous as breathing for them at this point, and as Will wakes a little in the night, feeling Jack’s head against his stomach, snoring slightly, Grace’s arms loosely wrapped around him, and even Karen’s fingers brushing against his a little, he feels at peace again. These three were more protective of him than they often let on, he notes, and somewhere deep in his gut he knows that his body is finally, one hundred percent his again. Whether Cathy was just dust in the wind, or encompassing some other helpless soul into doing her bidding, she was no longer his concern. For now, at least.

He carefully untangles himself from the sleeping pile of bodies to use the bathroom. When he returns, yawning, he sees Karen awakening. She sits up and gives him a tight smile.

“You okay?” Will says, going to sit next to her on the bed as Grace and Jack continue to sleep soundly.

“I should be asking you the same thing, honey,” Karen says, poking him a little. She’s doing that thing where she’s attempting to sound perkier than she feels, and Will can see right through her.

“You just found out that your ex-husband is on his ghost ex-wife’s hit-list. You must be feeling...well, you must be feeling _something_ ,” he says. He softens a little. “Honestly, I - I thought you’d want to be with him tonight. Instead of with me.”

Karen shakes her head. “Whattaya talk,” she says nonchalantly, reaching to pat his hand. “That man has eight bodyguards and six hundred pounds of protective fat on his body. I’m sure he can hold off one bimbo ghost for a little while.”

Will stifles a laugh.

“Also...you’re important to me too, honey,” Karen goes on. “When Cathy took you like that, I just felt so angry. And maybe a little bit like I was responsible…”

“You _were_ responsible, just to be clear,” Will says.

“ _Alright, alright,_ it was kinda my fault. What I’m saying is…” Karen sighs, irked as her own emotions come to the surface. “If the same thing had happened to Jack, or Grace, or _me_...I think I could have handled it. But you...you’ve always been like the rock. The dull, dependable, gray-suit rock who’s always there to keep the peace, and make god-awful puns...”

“Is this going to turn into a compliment anytime soon, or-?”

“...but when Cathy took over your body like that, and I was searching in your eyes for any hint of _you,_ to let me know things would be okay...and I couldn’t see you anywhere and I just...I got scared. Don’t get me wrong. I love my Poodle. And my Gracie,” she says, reaching across the stroke the redhead’s hair tenderly. “But you’re the one we all need to protect us. To keep everything from falling apart.”

“Huh,” Will says. “You know, I _really_ don’t get enough credit for that.”

She shifts closer to him. “So promise me, Wilma,” Karen says, firmly this time. “Promise me you won’t let that happen again.”

“Karen, I didn’t _let_ it-”

“ _Bup-bup-bup!_ ” she hushes him, one finger on his lips. “ _Promise_ me.” She fixes him with a look that is half-glaring, half-pleading, and Will can only nod in response.

“Fine. Fine. It won’t happen again,” he relents. “I promise.”

It’s the only thing he can do: promise. He’s the protector of the group, it’s what he does best. And as Karen is sufficiently reassured and returns to her slumber, looking more soft and vulnerable than ever, he can only hope that it’s enough.

 

* * *

 

 

“Oh my god, _Jack_! Did you do this?!”

After waking up, Grace had gone to fetch the mail later that morning and, upon stepping outside the apartment, came into barefoot-contact with a grainy, gritty substance. She had looked down, alarmed, to see heaps and heaps of salt, lining what seemed to be the entire ninth floor.

“Oh, yeah, about that. You’re out of salt.” Jack says airily. “I used it to protect the building. You’re welcome.” He takes a quick flourishing curtsy.

Grace brings in the mail, pointedly stepping over the offending border of salt and side-eying him with irritation. “Do I even want to ask…?” she says, ripping open the package.

“Grace, please. I didn’t watch all fifteen seasons of _Supernatural_ just for Jared Padalecki’s naked torso. _Okay,_ you caught me. I did. But I also picked up some great tips on warding off evil.” Jack nods. “God, being the main protector of this friendship group is so _exhausting_. I need breakfast. Where’s Will?”

“Will’s right here,” Will sighs, trudging into the room. “Don’t test me. I woke up just now thinking I was possessed again. Turns out that _one of you_ fell asleep on my arm.”

“The price to pay for close companionship,” Grace says, giving him a quick squeeze. “Okay, update: bad news - Jack just emptied _all_ of our salt all over the hallway based on something he saw on the CW, so, one of us - _not me_ \- is gonna be cleaning that up.”

“Good morning to you, too,” Will says, annoyed.

“But the g _ood news_ \- your healing crystals arrived!” Grace plucks the charm bracelet from the packaging and hands it to Will, who eyes it wearily. “Aunt Honey got us a family discount. But _then_ I got to haggle it down even more after I told her what happened to you-"

“You told Aunt Honey?!” Will cries. "Grace!"

“Relax, I didn’t get into the _specifics…_ ”

“How--how do you even skirt around a topic like that? What, ‘Oh, Will’s sick, there’s just a bug going round, nothing much, just uh, full-body, projectile-vomit level demonic possession, thanks for the cute crystals Aunt Honey?”

“Will, I just said you were _slightly_ cursed…”

“I swear to god, if this ends up on Facebook…” Will fumes, before begrudgingly slipping the bracelet on his wrist. “This better work.”

Jack snorts at the sight of the accessory, and shakes his head. “Really, Will? Crystals? At this time of year? Someone’s desperate.”

 

* * *

 

Will calls in sick to work, feeling he deserves a long weekend. He instead fixes breakfast for the group - spinach frittatas, sans the salt, of course - cooking in bulk being his go-to self-soothing pastime that has never once been a subject of complaint from his roommate.

Grace is just starting her thirds when Karen sidles up to her with a startlingly earnest look on her face.

“So, honey, I was wondering if you wanted to join me today on a fun little stake-out in the limo,” she grins. Grace frowns as she munches her breakfast. “You know, since we’re all playing hooky from work, we could make a girl’s day of it. Whattaya say?”

“A _stake out_?” Grace whines, voice muffled by food. “Haven’t we had enough weirdness in the past two days?”

Karen sighs. “I need to follow Stan. See if there are any suspicious-looking people lurking around him. The sooner we figure out who Cathy is inhabiting…”

“Nu-uh,” Grace says. “No way. I wouldn’t go near that bitch again if you _paid me_.”

“You do realize,” Karen says, folding her arms, “that if Cathy succeeds in her plan of murdering my ex-husband, who’s going to end up looking the _most_  guilty? Huh?"

Grace thinks for a while, before turning to look at Karen quizzically. “Fine. I’ll bite. Who?”

“Oh, how about the guy who was spray-painting threatening words on his billboard in front of hundreds of people not _twenty-four hours_ ago?” Karen says. “Lord, I feel like I’m playing _Blues Clues_ with you dopes sometimes.”

Grace drops her fork with a clatter.

“Wait, Will could go down for Stan’s murder?” she whispers. “Oh god, I didn’t even think of that.”

“Interested now?” Karen says wryly.

Grace sighs in defeat, wondering how this woman always succeeded in making her life unnecessarily bizarre.

“So. A stake-out? How would that work? What would I do?”

“It’s easy, honey. Just get some binoculars, bring a bunch of snacks, wait there in the dark, and pray it’s over before daylight. You know, the same way you got through sex with your husband.”

“...Fine,” Grace says. “It’s a date.”

 

* * *

 

While Grace and Karen are preparing for their stake-out, Will goes out into the hall with a broom to observe the damage.

“So, how exactly is  _salt_ supposed to protect me?” he muses, half to himself and half to Jack, who’s sipping a cup of coffee al fresco at Cafe Jacques (a restaurant that, Will notes, has been going in and out of business for the past several years depending on whether or not Jack had steady employment).

“It’s an ancient cleansing tradition that has strong Wiccan roots,” Jack explains matter-of-factly. “You’re not in the club, you wouldn’t understand.”

“Yeah, I guess my tendency to miss episodes of _Buffy_ might be my downfall,” Will says. Setting aside the broom, he takes the opposite seat at the table and sighs. “Jack, do you know anything about repressed memories?”

“Uh, you mean my entire elementary school experience?” Jack says. “Bought the T-shirt, my friend.”

“I just...I feel like I’m still missing a part of myself, you know?” Will goes on. “Karen made a point last night about how I was the reliable one, you know? The _protector,_ the _rock,_ the _guardian,_ the _glue..._ ”

Jack makes a disgusted face. “Okay are you done? Metaphorically jerking one off? Do I have to close up shop early?”

“...But after yesterday? After losing that much control over myself? I just feel so powerless,” Will shrugs. “I guess I just figured if I found out a way to access those memories that I lost, I could get a sense of myself again. Maybe even help Karen.”

Jack considers Will’s words. “...Are you sure you want that?” he says. “I mean, memories are repressed for a reason.”

“I think I need to,” Will replies.

Jack is silent for a while, before standing up.

“Alright. Come into my apartment,” he says.

“What’s going on?” Will says, standing up cautiously. He follows Jack into 9A, and is promptly pushed down onto the couch.

“Lie down,” Jack says, shutting the door.  “You may not know this about me, but I was once a trained hypnotherapist.”

“I didn’t know that, but I know now not to question these things,” Will says, lying down on his back and making himself comfortable.

“Silence is pertinent,” Jack snaps, as he begins to pace back and forth in a pseudo-intellectual manner. “I did this once before on Rory and now he knows all about his Cherokee past life. So you know I’m good. Now close your eyes.”

Will obeys.

“Focus on two things: your breathing, and my voice. Those are the only two things that exist to you right now,” Jack says slowly. “Keep your breathing _nice_ and _steady_. As your consciousness grows weary, your subconscious grows stronger.”

Will listens to Jack’s voice, willing himself to be taken under.

“Now. There’s a brick wall in front of you. Each brick conceals a memory. Take a brick of your choosing and let it guide you towards enlightenment,” Jack drones.

As Jack's monologue continues to pull him deeper, Will visualizes his brick wall.

_Breathe in,_

_Breathe out._

_Breathe in,_

_Breathe out._

He reaches out and removes a brick.  

 

**24 hours earlier**

 

Olivia Walker slams her laptop shut frustratedly, and begins to stuff her belongings into her book bag. Business law is kicking her ass right now, she thinks, as the other students pour out of the room for their lunch break. With her father’s money, she technically didn’t _have_ to get a higher education. She could’ve gone into acting, or music. She could’ve been an _English_ major, for god’s sake. But no, she had to go and decide to be a woman of _substance_ and _practicality_. Dumbest decision she ever made? Maybe.

She’s nearly out the door when she bumps into her teacher, Will Truman.

“Oh. Mr. Truman. Sorry, I didn’t see you there,” she apologizes, backing away. “Great class today, by the way.”

Will looks at her wordlessly with a strange, foreign expression.

“What? Do I have something on my face?” Olivia says, embarrassed.

“...Olivia, my god,” Will says, taking her in with a look of wonderment. “You’ve grown up so much.”

Olivia blinks. “...Since class ended literally-” she checks her watch. “-eleven minutes ago?”

She looks at him questioningly as he slowly turns to shut the door, blocking the hubbub of students passing. He looks back at Olivia with a look of longing in his eyes that the woman couldn’t help but find disconcerting.

“Livvie, it’s me,” he says, smiling. “Your mother.”

“Uh…” Olivia begins to feel increasingly uncomfortable. “Mr. Truman, did you eat one of Jillian’s cookies by any chance?”

“You should sit down,” Will says, and Olivia walks slowly backwards to her chair and lowers herself into it, because she’s too weirded out to continue standing anyway. She doesn’t know what’s wrong with her teacher all of a sudden, but he seems agitated; unhinged in a way that was beginning to scare her.

“You won’t remember me,” Will goes on hurriedly, “I know you and Mason were so young when I died. But there _has_ to be a part of you, Livvie, that heard me when I was calling out to you all those years. Telling you that I still loved you. That I cared about you more than your father and stepmother ever could. That my death _wasn’t_ an accident-”

“Okay, this is getting extremely uncomfortable,” Olivia cries, springing up from her seat. “Will, there’s something wrong with you that wasn’t wrong with you ten minutes ago. Either you’re taking a bad trip, or you need to see the nurse. I’m leaving. Don’t follow me.”

She begins to storm out of the classroom, shuddering.

“Olivia, _please_ ,” Will cries. “I’m not Will. He’s just a vessel I’m using to communicate with you.”

“Yeah, that’s a great example of the kind of things you should stop saying,” Olivia cries. “So...quit it, or I’m calling the campus medic.”

“For _twenty-nine years_ I was trapped in that penthouse,” Will presses on regardless. “Getting to watch you grow up was my only solace. Not getting to hold you, or sing to you at night, but just _watching_ was all I had. Seeing you learn to walk for the first time. Listening to you playing that awful recorder for weeks on end. That strange obsession you had with J.T from _Step by Step._ Remember when you used to pour out your vodka martinis and replace them with lemonade? Because I do.”

Olivia is frozen, one hand clasped on the door handle but unable to bring herself to turn it.

“Then you grew up, moved out, and it was just me and that...helium-voiced harpy. God, it was my personal brand of hell. But then, last night, she brings out this Ouija board. Trying to contact her dead maid she’s so attached to. But _god_ , I’d been waiting for so long. My spirit was stronger, angrier, more deserving to finally break through and reach the surface. Taking that breath of life again was…”

Will inhales, then exhales dramatically, clearly relishing every moment.

“ _So_ good. After two and a half decades of continuous drowning, I finally have control again.”

Olivia’s logical brain knows it can’t possibly be true. But she slowly turns, to face … her mother? In the body of her business law professor?

God, this was weird.

“Mom?” she whispers. “No. It can’t be.”

“It is,” her mother says, holding out her arms.  “Livvie, please. Come here. Let me hold you again.”

Nope, too weird.

Olivia shakes her head. “Uh...I’m good. Thanks.”

“But you know it’s me,” she says. “You can feel it. The connection between us.”

“What I _feel_ is that you know a disturbing amount of information about me,” Olivia corrects. She cautiously takes a step forward. “But if you really are...my mother...you can’t keep possessing my law professor. He’s on the clock right now.”

“I know,” Cathy says. “I can’t hold him for much longer. An hour or two, maybe. My powers are only so strong.”

Olivia is perturbed. “...Yeah. I know I don’t remember you that well, but did you always talk like a Disney villain, or is that, like, a recent development? No judgement,” she says, holding up her hands in a surrender motion.

“What I need,” Cathy says, pacing forward and taking her daughter gently but firmly by the shoulders, “is a willing vessel. This one is too resistant. It’s fighting too hard against me. The only way I can stay here for longer is for someone to _voluntarily_ become a host.”

“A host?” Olivia echoes, looking at her mother dead in the eyes for the first time in years.

“I have some loose ends I need to tie up on earth,” Cathy explains. “Only then can my soul be at peace.”

Olivia, by now, is beginning to believe that perhaps this truly _is_ her mother, and though she has the appearance of her dorky, tweed-wearing professor, there’s a maternal pull she’s beginning to feel, the kind she almost never felt with Karen (except occasionally.) Her eyes glassy with tears, she smiles shakily.

“Mom, I...I never thought I’d get to talk to you again.”

“Me neither,” her mother replies. “Sweetie, I’ve missed you.”

Despite her overwhelming emotions, Olivia can’t ignore the elephant in the room. Attempting to pull herself together, she steps backwards out of the other woman’s grasp.

“Um,” she clears her throat, folding her arms. “So you want to _use me_? As like a...repository?”

“Just for a little while,” Cathy says. “Livvie, you can trust me. I’m your _mother_.”

For Olivia, it feels like a punch to the gut - a punch of guilt - as she instinctively goes to trace the diamond necklace given to her by her stepmother. She doesn’t know how to tell her that Karen was her mother now.

Karen wasn’t a perfect maternal figure, by any stretch of the imagination. But she’d been _there_ , when her real mother wasn’t.

An apparition, a faint memory, a _ghost_ couldn’t compete with that.

“...Let me think about it,” she says finally. “I’m not saying no.” She backs away once again. “I just...need some time to process this. Okay?”

“Take all the time you need,” comes the reply. “I love you, Livvie.”

Olivia can’t return the sentiment.

For numerous reasons.

Instead, she grapples at the door handle and makes a clumsy, hasty exit.

 

* * *

 

 

“Karen, we’ve been on this stake-out for _five hours._ ” Grace complains. “All we’ve been doing is just following Stan around watching him eat better food than we are.” She continues to chew miserably on her Red Vines.

“Did that homeless guy look suspicious to you?” Karen muses, still clutching the binoculars and peering from the tinted windows.

“Karen, this is New York. Everyone look suspicious.”  Grace looks at the socialite from the corner of her eye, and forces a tight smile. “It’s sweet, you know. The devotion you have to him.”

“Who? _Stan_?” Karen says, putting down the binoculars and turning to look at Grace.

“Yeah. It’s clear that you still…” Grace stifles a laugh. “...harbor some feelings for him. Which I totally get, by the way.”

“Honey,” Karen scoffs. “I care about as much for Stan as I do the crud growing under Smitty’s toenails. Between him and Cathy, Stan is just...the lesser of two evils.”

“Really? So we’ve spent five hours following him around to every restaurant chain in the city with word ‘Bucket’ in it for...what reason, exactly?”

Karen thinks. “I’m gonna go with, twenty percent to protect Stan, twenty percent to protect Will, and _sixty_ percent…” She turns to smile at Grace. “Just to spend some time with my girl.”

Grace pauses her Red Vine chewing. “ _I’m_ your girl?” she says, quirking a smile.

Karen rolls her eyes. “Well, honey, don’t say it like _that_.”

“I said it the same way you said it!”

“Did not.”

“Well, Karen, if you really wanted to spend time with me, you could’ve just taken me to one of these restaurants and bought me a bucket of chicken.”

“You’re that easy, aren’t you, Adler?”

“I....really am.” Grace says contemplatively. “But seriously, I could really go for a bucket of something.”

“Oops. Can’t. Custody agreement.” Karen shrugs sheepishly.

“Damn it.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I haven't touched this fic in six months, for good reason: I never intended to write it in the first place (I think I must've been drunk that week). But! I suddenly remembered that I had too much fun writing it, so I decided to throw in a quick filler-ish chapter in honor of spooky month. Will & Grace isn't a show I intend to watch anymore, but I still have mad love for these characters and this is how I'm expressing it. Sidenote - if the story seems chaotic, it's because I make it up as I go along (that's why I write in present tense) and I thrive(?) on having little to no structure. Also sidenote - this was actually inspired by a seance experience I had in real life. I won't go into details, but I will say that I didn't have three friends for moral support and that you should definitely never do them alone.

 

* * *

 

“Grace! Wake up!” Karen hisses, poking her slumbering friend in her side. Grace stirs, mumbling confusedly, and begrudgingly sits up in the backseat of the limo, needles and pins dancing across her limbs and the sickly taste of Redvines still lingering in her mouth. 

“Where are we?” she groans. “What time is it?”

Karen is annoyingly lucid, on full alert as she grabs her bagful of...Grace can only assume _weapons._ “It’s ten thirty. I’ve managed to locate Stanley,” she half-replies. “While we were napping - well, _I_ was napping, _you_ were groping and grinding on me the whole time…”

“Hey, _you_ were the one who asked me to spoon you!” Grace hits back defensively. “And there’s limited space back here. God, is this what it feels like to be Rosario?”

Karen huffs. “Well, _while_ we were asleep, Stan’s been hitting up a strip club. And not just _any_ strip club.” She holds up her smartphone to reveal a tracking app, with a large flashing red dot next to two words that make even Grace shudder at the memory - _Suckingham Palace -_ the British-themed strip club that existed for reasons she couldn’t personally comprehend. 

“You put a tracker on Stan’s phone?” she says eventually.

Karen scoffs. “ _No._ I wouldn’t be that conspicuous. It’s hidden in his skin folds.”

“Of course it is.” 

“I figured since he hired an investigator to track me, I have every right to track him too,” she justifies. “And it’s for his own protection. The big lug should be thanking me.”

“And I thought _my_ divorce was hostile,” Grace comments through gritted teeth as she squints at the screen.

“Little gift I got during my affair with Malcolm. If ever Stan's life is in danger, his pacemaker will send an immediate signal to the tracking device, and then to my phone,” Karen explains. “So if we hear the tone Yankee Doodle, we’ll know Cathy’s got him.”

Grace nods. “Right. I remember now. We’re ghost-hunting. I’m still recollecting myself to this reality.”

“Do it fast,” Karen says, opening the door to reveal their surroundings. “Cause we’re at the joint right now.” 

They’re in a parking lot, and from the nearby club Grace can hear the faint thumping sounds of what can only be interpreted as a Dubstep version of Greensleeves.

“Guess it’s medieval night,” she sighs.

“Emphasis on the _evil_ ,” Karen says, her eyes narrowed.

Grace is confused. She turns to look at Karen, cogs turning in her mind. “Wait, hold up. You think _Lorraine_ is involved in all of this?” she says. “I mean, sure, she’s a vamping gold-digger with questionable morals, but she wouldn’t _kill_ Stan-”

“Remember when Cathy said she made a deal with someone from the mortal realm? Who had _much_ to benefit from Stan’s death?” Karen explains.

“You think she was serious about that?” Grace muses. “I thought she was just bitter that you rejected her.”

“Oh, she was bitter alright. So naturally she settled for the trashy, fifth-rate working-class British version of me...”

Grace scoffs at the theory.

“...buttered her up with promises of joining forces and taking back power, then possessed her to lure Stan down here, seduce him into changing his will, and then finish him off once and for all. Lord, it’s so transparent.”

“It is?” Grace says.

It’s outlandish, she knows, but Karen’s theories have had an unfortunately good track record lately. 

Karen steps out of the limo, weapons in hand. “Honey, come on,” she urges. “Let’s nip this thing in the bud, Jack and I have plans to watch Ru Paul’s Drag Race later.”

“Uh, I’ll wait in the car,” Grace says.

Karen sighs. “I need you for the plan to work! I’ll distract her with a lap-dance, you’ll handcuff her to a chair, and we’ll rough her up a little, get some answers, and then exorcise that bitch right back to hell. Who knows, maybe she’ll drag Lorraine down there in the process.”

Grace shakes her head, stifling a laugh. “You know, maybe it’s because I’m a little stir crazy, but I can’t help but admire Cathy a little. As a feminist-”

“ _Lord…_ ”

“-something about jilted women teaming up to take down a chauvinistic ex-lover seems...so empowering to me. From an outside perspective, at least.”

“Well, if you think this story’s going to end with the three of us performing a Lesley Gore ballad together, you don’t know Karen Walker.” Karen says, wrenching the door further open and beckoning for Grace to come out. “Now do what Mama tells you, and I’ll buy you a round of Hobnobs. Whattaya say?”

Grace isn’t particularly in the mood for ghost hunting tonight, but her thighs are chafing, her limbs are numb, and her phone is dead.

“Eh. I’ve got nothing better to do,” she relents.

 

The patrons of Suckingham Palace don’t seem to take much notice when two women barge in to the joint, one with a suspect-looking barrel bag swung over her shoulder and a menacing look on her face. Most men are too far gone - either hunched drunkenly over their Irish whiskies at the bar, or their eyes trained lustfully on one of the dancers, who is dressed up in a red wig and corseted dress and gyrating sensually against the pole to the song ‘Cherry Pie’.

“Okay, these Anglophile pubs are getting way out of hand,” Grace mutters, aghast. “Is that supposed to be Queen Elizabeth?”

“I also do a great Margaret Thatcher, if you’re into that,” Lorriane says, breaking character. She looks down her nose at Grace. “Oh, it’s you. Patty. The cheapskate.” 

Karen is undeterred by the ridiculousness of the scenario, folding her arms and fixing a stare up at her arch-rival. 

“Alright, cut the crap, Cathy. You’ve got eight seconds to co-operate with our demands, or you’re going to hear a few choice Latin words that’ll engulf you in something just a _little_ hotter than those tanning beds you were so addicted to.”

Lorraine blinks, confused. “Cathy? Is that a Catherine of Aragon thing? A little niche, but I guess I could pull it together.” She preens. “I was an understudy in _Six the Musical_ , after all.”

“Quit the dumb act, I _know_ Stan was just here,” Karen says irritably. “And I _know_ you were working your working-class wiles on him, so you better start flapping those gingivitis-infected gums and ‘fess up.”

“Actually, Queen Elizabeth didn’t have tooth decay, that’s a common misconception,” Lorraine corrects.

“Who said anything about Queen Elizabeth?”

Lorraine smiles. “Oh, Mother. I do love our cheeky banters. Even when I don’t know what the bloody hell you’re prattling on about.” She continues to move against the pole, dancing half-heartedly while continuing to talk to the agitated women. “Yes, Stan was here. He got his money’s worth. I was just doing my job. Last I heard, you two are divorced, so what’s it to you?” 

“...Karen thinks you might be possessed by a vengeful ghost,” Grace explains.

Lorraine scoffs as she works the pole. “‘Course I am, Patty. That’s the whole point of medieval night, innit?”

“Specifically, Stan’s first wife, Cathy,” Grace goes on, attempting the mediate the tension between the two women with one hand braced on Karen’s shoulder. “She sorta...leaped into the mortal realm while we were doing a séance. First she possessed Will, and now…”

“And now she’s in you,” Karen finishes. “So why don’t you step down off that stage and let us duct tape you to that chair, nice and tight, so Grace can do some Latin chants we can end this god forsaken thing once and for all?”

“Whoa, I did _not_ agree to that level of participation.” Grace says indignantly.  

“Well, honey, you’re better at the throaty languages,” Karen shrugs.

“Was that an antisemitic remark?”

“Jeez Louise, learn to take a compliment.”

Lorraine steps down from the stage, cutting in between them. “Alright, I’m on my break. _You_ need a martini, and you…” she looks at Grace. “Need a packet of Hobnobs.”

“Best idea I’ve heard all night,” Grace murmurs. 

 

Explaining the situation to Lorraine was oddly liberating, Grace notes, once it became apparent that there was no hint of Cathy’s spirit in her system. (Between the ridiculous get-up and the laid-back demeanor, she was just too lucidly _Lorraine_ to be housing an angry ghost.) Between mouthfuls of cookies, Grace poured out the story to her at the bar while a suspicious Karen sat on the stool behind her, sullenly flicking holy water at the back of her head. 

She proves to a surprisingly good listener, up until a particular part of the retelling.

“Well, that was a daft thing to do,” she comments nonchalantly, before taking a languid swig of whiskey. 

“Which part?” Grace says, confused. 

“Well, all of it, really, but especially the part where you rejected her like that.” She turns to Karen. “I’ve done a lot of theatre in my time and there’s this trope where the evil villain has this whole bit, this, ‘join me, and we can be stronger together’ bit. And the hero _always_ turns them down. Drives me bonkers.”

“Wha- are you suggesting I should have teamed up with her to kill Stanley?” Karen snaps. “I _knew_ you were corrupt, you-”

“Don’t get your knickers twisted, I mean you should have _pretended_ to join her,” Lorraine says, rolling her eyes. “Played nice so you can double-cross her later? God knows I’ve done it with you more than once.”

“S’true,” Grace concedes, shrugging at Karen. 

“I mean, if you’d _joined_ her, you could’ve gotten on the inside. Found out how she operates, what her weaknesses are. Would’ve at least bought you some time.” Lorraine says. “Now you’ve gone and blown it, haven’t you?”

Karen hates that Lorraine is right - that her rebuking Cathy had only made her more vengeful - but she’s not about to admit that. Instead she sulks, and orders another drink from a man she flippantly calls ‘British Smitty’. 

Sensing Karen’s remorse, Grace tries to think of a solution. “Maybe it’s not too late,” she pipes up. “Let’s track her down. Tell her you’ve had time to think about it and that you’ve had a change of heart.”

“She’s found someone else, remember?” Karen says glumly, circling the rim of her glass with her finger. 

Grace is persistent. “Look, if she’s going to take down a guy like Stan, she’s going to need all the hands she can get,” she bargains. “Come on, Kare, I think we’ll all sleep better at night knowing that we’ve got the evil spirit on _our_ side instead of against us.”

“Patty’s got a point,” Lorraine concurs. “Well, my break’s over. Love to stay and chat, but we get some really generous tippers this time of night. This one bloke gives me fifty dollars just to hold his head down with my foot and call him a peasant.” 

She finishes her drink and leaves, giving Karen a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as she goes.

“We should get going, too,” Grace says, leaning over the pick up Karen’s bag. “Thank god we didn’t end up needing these weapons, like this…” Her eyes widen as she unzips the bag. “Karen, is this a _semiautomatic rifle_?” She hurriedly zips it back up again, shielding it from onlookers.

“I don’t screw around,” Karen says plainly. 

“Come on, it’s all fun and games until there’s actual bullets involved,” Grace hisses under her breath.

“‘Cause it’s been one big dance around the maypole until now,” Karen drawls.

Grace sucks in her breath, in an attempt to quell her growing anxiety. “Karen, seriously. I’m going to need you to make nice with Cathy, even if you have to kiss her ass. It’s not going to be easy. But the body count will be much lower because of it.”

“Alright, alright,” Karen sighs. “I’ll join forces with her, and you can get your feminist feel-good summer blockbuster kick out it.”

“ _Ugh_ , thank you,” Grace says, relieved. “I can hear the Lesley Gore playing already. Hey, Smitty, can I get some Hobnobs to go?”

“My name isn’t-”

“Just hand over the cookies, Smitty.”

* * *

 

 It’s well after midnight by the time Grace gets home. As she stumbles through the door, her roommate is waiting to chide her.

“Grace, where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to call you for hours!” Will says, leaping up from the couch.

“Stake out. Phone died,” Grace explains hurriedly. “Look, major development in the Cathy thing-”

“Major development on this end too. That’s why I was calling you,” Will says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can you sit down?”

“Nope. I’ve been sitting all day, holed up in a limo. Legs are numb. I’m pacing.” Grace begins to pace back and forth to stretch out her calves. “Oh, wow. This feels good. Continue.”

Will blinks. “No, really, you should sit. There’s more to this whole Cathy thing than we originally thought, and I can’t talk about it seriously with you when you’re running back and forth eating...what are you eating?”

“Hobnobs. British cookies. They’re amazing.”

“Are you...are you _on_ something right now?” Will asks, attempting to steady her. “I shouldn’t have left you alone with Karen for so long."

“Just Red Bull. I had, like eight of them during the stake out.”

“Okay, well if you just-”

“Karen and I have a plan, by the way." Grace goes on, continuing to pace and eat. "We’re going to pretend to be on Cathy’s side in order to undercut her. Lorraine came up with it. I know, I know, it’s nuts.”

“Grace-”

“It’s kind of exhilarating, you know? I feel like I’m in _Ghostbusters_.  You know, the all-female one that I never watched.”

“Seriously, you need to hear this-”

“And I feel like if I _just_ brush up on my Kabbalah, I could actually-”

“It’s Olivia,” Will says loudly.

Grace stops in her tracks, then turns to face Will, half a cookie hanging from her mouth.

“Huh?”

“Cathy’s using Olivia as a conduit,” he repeats. “You know, to kill Stan?”

“Oh.” She chews on the rest of her cookie thoughtfully, then swallows. “...Remind me who that is?”

Will sighs. “Karen’s stepdaughter, Olivia?”

“Oh. _Oh!_ ” Grace clamps a hand over her mouth. “That’s gonna be awkward.” 

“I guess ‘awkward’ what you’d call it in Layman’s terms, yes.” Will says. “Guess what they’d call it in a court of law?” 

Grace goes to sit on the couch, finally feeling a little worn out. “So...you think Olivia would _kill_ her own father?” she says quizzically. 

“Not intentionally. Olivia just thinks she’s channelling Cathy to ‘tie up some loose ends’” he says, motioning quotation marks. 

“And you know this, _how_?”

“It happened in my class room. I was _there_. Not consciously, but I had a hypnotically-induced regression-”

“A _what_?”

“ _I know, I know_ , it’s the kind of thing I would’ve turned my nose up at forty-eight hours ago, but a lot has happened since then. Look - from what I understand, Cathy was only able to possess me for a limited amount of time because I was an unwilling vessel. But if someone _volunteers_ to be a vessel…”

“The spirit can stay as long as they like?” Grace finishes.

“Exactly,” Will finishes. 

It takes a moment for Grace to absorb the information.

“Okay, this is just an entirely new level of psychopathy,” she finally manages. “Who does that to their own kid?”

“Right?”

“I mean, theft and vandalism is one thing but now we’re talking about _child endangerment_ -”

“Grace.”

“What?”

“Not to split hairs, but Olivia’s like, thirty.”

“Wait, what?” Grace grapples with the most hard-hitting information she’d learned all week. “Oh god, we’re getting old.” 

“Yeah, I don’t wanna talk about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw in a cast interview that Debra got hooked on Hobnobs during the press visit to the UK and I couldn't resist. Also, I love her.


End file.
